


Long distance

by Fatale (femme)



Category: White Collar
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-04
Updated: 2013-08-04
Packaged: 2017-12-22 11:12:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/912518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/femme/pseuds/Fatale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal and Peter have shitty phone sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Long distance

 

 

 

Long distance  
WC: approx. 800  
Peter/Neal  
Rating: PG-13

 

 

His phone buzzes on the counter. Neal picks it up, swipes across the front to answer.

Peter’s achingly familiar rumble answers him. “Neal?”

“Peter!" Neal says. His smile is immediate, reflexive; it always is when he hears Peter's voice. “It’s good to hear from you. How’s the conference?”

“Boring,” Peter says. His tone becomes secretive. “I’m actually in my hotel room now -- and alone.”

“Great,” Neal says, his stomach clenching. Peter and he had talked about this, Peter being away for two weeks, and Peter had brought up -- shyly, face turning deliciously red -- the possibility of phone sex.

Phone sex does nothing for Neal. Actually, that isn’t strictly true. It embarrasses him, makes him a little uncomfortable. Neal’s not bashful about sex, exactly, he just talks so damn much while he’s awake, always thinking on his feet, mind racing a mile a minute; sex is the only thing he can do mindlessly. Until this, sex with Peter has been strictly _fun_.

But Peter looked so eager, and he so rarely asked for anything for himself--

“Good,” Neal says, mind made up. He purposefully firmly rolls his hand over his dick, kneading it a little, anything to get his dick started. He lets his voice go soft, raspy, the way that drives Peter wild, “What are you wearing?”

Peter coughs a little, says, “A hotel robe -- uh, nothing else. That is, nearly naked. Um, hold on--” The click of the phone being set down, the faint rustle of fabric and --"Now, nothing. Naked. Yes."

Neal bites his cheek to keep from laughing. He breathes deeply through his nose twice until he trusts his voice to come out steady. “All right, Peter, I want you to touch yourself for me.” Neal palms his crotch again with his free hand, but there’s nothing for it; his dick wants nothing to do with this foolishness. Neal gives up, goes back to scanning the cupboard and making a grocery list. He shifts the phone between his shoulder and ear. “Are you touching yourself?”

“Yessss,” Peter says, drawing the word out between his teeth. His voice is thick, low. “I -- I’m imagining it’s your hand. What are you doing?”

“Uh,” Neal says, “I’m undressing and I’m grabbing some lube.” He spares a bemused glance for his shirt and pants, belt still firmly in place and leans over the counter, adds eggs and cereal to his grocery list. “Now I’m laying in bed, gonna spread my legs, slick myself up for you.”

Peter makes a choked sound. “That sounds -- I can picture it,” he rasps.

“And now I’m adding one finger and it…” Neal trails off, eyeing the nutrition panel on his cereal. Total cereal doesn’t actually have blueberries in it. Huh. He thought it tasted like blueberries.

“And,” Peter prompts.

“Uh, oh fuck, where was I? I’m hitting my prostate repeatedly and it feels awesome,” Neal says absently. Maybe Kashi would be a better choice of cereal? He has to actually start researching his food. He’s getting too old to keep eating this sugary shit.

There’s a tense silence on the line, then, “Neal, what are you _really_ doing?” Peter asks with terrible and insulting suspicion.

Neal drops the cereal box. “Fingering myself open for your huge cock,” he lies.

A sigh, and then, “The truth now, please.”

“Making a grocery list,” he admits.

“Neal, _Jesus Christ_ , if you weren’t into this, then why would you agree--”

“You were so _excited_ ,” Neal says defensively. Peter’s being so unreasonable. He wanted to get off, was getting off, and who cares if Neal thinks phone sex kind of sucks, anyway?

“I was excited because I thought you’d be really into it,” Peter says, exasperated. “Not because I have some kind of crazy phone sex fetish.”

“You were getting off,” Neal says. He doesn’t know why he sounds so accusatory. He’s not mad, he’s not.

“Because it’s with _you_ ,” Peter says.

“Oh,” Neal says dumbly. He pushes the list away from him, leans over the counter on his elbows. “So -- this isn’t about the phone, it’s kind of more about.” He doesn’t know what to say. Until he felt his anger dissipating, melting away like butter on a hot day, he wasn't aware he felt anything like anger, frustration.

“Neal,” Peter says, his voice warm, fond. “It’s always been about you.”

“I -- okay,” Neal says. “Let’s try this again.“ He clears his throat, licks his lips, suddenly nervous. It seems more real now, so much more intimate -- just their voices, their words without the overwhelming visual stimulation, the sound of Peter’s breath stuttering in his ear.

Neal reaches down, pops the button open on his pants, and works the zipper down. “I’m undoing my jeans, and then I’m going to touch myself. Imagine my hands on you,” Neal says and closes his eyes.

 

 

 

The end. :)

 

 


End file.
